


the way of the warrior

by Icej



Series: Sharing Tongues [1]
Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Clan Culture, Clan life, Gen, Mentorship, Rituals, RiverClan (Warriors), ShadowClan (Warriors), SkyClan (Warriors), ThunderClan (Warriors), WindClan (Warriors), apprentices, stories, warrior code, wordbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 21:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icej/pseuds/Icej
Summary: “Why do we respect the warrior code?”Mosspaw freezes. She rises from her hunting crouch and peeks around the ferns to where her mentor is sitting. Pale yellow eyes pierce through the fronds.





	the way of the warrior

“Why do we respect the warrior code?”

Bramblingpaw freezes. She rises from her hunting crouch and peeks around the ferns to where her mentor is sitting. Pale yellow eyes pierce through the fronds. 

“Because it is morally right,” she replies without a thought. 

Cinderfur stands and purrs, padding around the ferns and brushing her grey flank against Bramblingpaw’s longer fur. She disappears through the round leaves of a bramble bush, disturbing raspberries. Bramblingpaw stares after her, unsettled, pelt prickling. Around her, the forest is alive with colors and sounds and scents. Leaves rustle, birds call. A goldfinch peers down at her with its bright red face. Two swallows preen their blue-black backs on the branches of a nearby elm; over by the ash tree, a nestfull of baby chicks is shrieking. The cloying perfume of summer-lilac permeates the woods, as does the softer scent of the white hawthorn. 

Bramblingpaw does not need to ask herself why she must respect the code. It is what she has been taught to live by. It ensures that warriors do not kill kittens.

The code is the way of the warrior cat.

* * *

The heat is stifling. The sun is relentless. Far above the moors, clouds are flying away, riding the wind like birds, and like birds they disappear at the edge of the world. But on the moors, there is no wind, only a hot breeze that sinks among the grasses and dies out in a whisper. Cats have long ceased hunting and training. Some are on water-fetching duty. They must bring moss to the lake and trek back to the camp, so that the elders and queens and kits do not die. Apart from those unlucky few, most warriors have sought out the shade of prickly gorse bushes and fragrant thyme. 

“Why do we respect the warrior code?” asks Runningfoot in a conversational tone.

The senior warrior is stretched under the branches of a huge rhododeron, eyes half-open. Greypaw is crouching a respectful distance away, hidden by a spray of pale pink flowers, his tail low to the ground. He does not know what to do with the sudden question. The perfume exuded by the plants around him is heady, and the Greenleaf sun burns his eyes, making it hard to focus on his esteemed mentor. 

“Because it is our Starclan-given duty,” he meows after some thought. 

Runningfoot blinks slowly. “That’s right,” she replies. Silence ensues. The old tabby flicks an ear at the red stems of a low-hanging flower. “Long ago,” she says—and Greypaw jumps, having thought the conversation over—“Long ago, our ancestors renounced the life of rogues and formulated the sacred laws by which we live today. They prescribed a code of conduct for us, their descendants, so that we may in turn join them in the blessed place when our time is come.”

“I understand,” says Greypaw.

“Do you?” retorts Runningfoot.

The young apprentice flattens his ears. However, his mentor gives a strange, rusty purr. “Do not be frightened,” she meows, and purrs some more. “Look around.”

He looks. Before his paws, the ground falls away. If he sticks his neck out, he will be able to see the naked earth: bare minerals and old layers of sediment. Beyond that, the land curves into a gentle dip and rises again, rolling under the sky. Pale grasses rustle and whisper among themselves, carrying poppies and violets. Yellow gorse, faded thyme and bright lavender crowd the hills, bristling against the flat horizon. 

“What do you see?”

Greypaw hesitates. “Our territory.” A pause. Runningfoot is still watching him, and he feels obliged to add something smart. “This is Harestar’s knoll—this is where he caught the falcon.”

Runningfoot trills, a sign of pleasure at the thought of past feats, a sign of respect. 

“Tell me the story," she orders, "tell me how Harestar caught the falcon.”

Greypaw can feel the fur rising on his back, even though he wishes it were flat. He jerks his tail. Surely Runningfoot must have already heard this story—surely she doesn’t believe that he can tell it better. There are more gifted orators in the clan than a shy apprentice. Nonetheless, he obliges. “When… When Harestar was blessed by our ancestors and, um, returned from his communion with the spirits… he came upon our camp and saw his kin and was filled with… uh, love. So he rose his head to call the clan together and announce that the ancient ones had given him wisdom and… wisdom. And strength.”

Greypaw chokes on his next words, unnerved. His esteemed mentor’s whiskers sure seem to be twitching a whole lot. 

“B-But as Harestar raised his head, his eyes met the rising sun and suddenly he was struck with a vision. He leapt away from the camp, and the warriors of the clan grew alarmed and followed him, but they could not keep up—uh, I’m sure they were very fast! But they didn’t have the strength of the ancestors or… or anything. So the warriors fell away in the distance, Harestar ran even faster!” The cadence of the story was coming back to him; the traditional words used by the elders were coming back to him. “He leapt over entire gorse bushes and rushed through Newleaf primroses, intent only on what he had seen in the rays of dawn. The warriors could not see what he was chasing, but Harestar knew. And as he came to a dip in the land, there he saw it: the falcon.”

The falcon.

“Its wings were as wide the branches of a great elm,” meows Greypaw, so intent on telling the story right that he does not feel his fur bush up and his claws dig into the soil. “Its talons were sharp like the fangs of a warrior; its feathers were white like the moon, but its tail was dark as the night. It was perched on this top of this knoll, this knoll just here—but when it saw Harestar it took flight and swooped down. And Harestar leapt up at it. The fight was brutal—claws and talons and fangs and wings. The falcon was tearing at Harestar but he would not let go! As the warriors caught up with their leader, they saw that the great bird could no longer bear to fly, and the pair sank to the ground, and Harestar killed it and murmured thanks to the ancient ones…”

“… for the falcon is a noble bird,” murmurs Runningfoot.

Greypaw ducks his head. A soft silence ensues. The cats watch a long-legged tiger beetle step across the sandy earth.

“You see,” says Runningfoot, quietly, “the story that you have told me is tied to Harestar as much as it is tied to the moor. This is Harestar’s knoll—you cannot look at it without knowing that there our leader once felled a falcon. When you walk here, you walk among our memories and our stories.”

Greypaw blinks. Suddenly, the dry and thirsty hills around him seem… mysterious—it is as if every tiny yellow flower on every gorsebush has captured one of his kin’s secret, as if the dip between the hills has swallowed his clanmates’ memories.

“These are our ancestral lands," says the senior warrior. “Your mother and foremothers have walked and hunted here. Their pawprints dot the trails you follow to the lake; their clawmarks line every boulder. They have followed the warrior code in times of hunger and war; they have followed clan laws in selecting their mates and rearing their kits and obeying their elders. The names that we bear are for the plants and animals found in the moor because these are the gifts bestowed upon us.”

“So… is that why we follow the warrior code?” asks Greypaw, unsure. “Because we have names? Memories?”

Runningfoot harrumphs, dissatisfied. “Let me tell you another story. At the dawn of the world, the mother-of-all-cats cried a single tear. From that tear sprung the moor cat, who represented its lighter element; but the heavier part rolled down the hills and shattered, forming the lake. Today, we need the lake to quench our thirst. See? Even the water which we drink is a blessing of the ancient ones.”

“Can the ancient ones really take away the lake?” Greypaw isn’t sure he likes the idea.

“Yes, they could,” answers his mentor. “If we do not respect what they have decreed, they will strike us with drought; they will take what they have given us and we will die.”

The apprentice feels his ears flatten and his tail bush up. His mother had told his similar stories when he was a kit, when she wanted to scare Cloudpaw into obedience. He had believed them. But having a senior warrior warn him of the same thing is altogether more real and frightening.

“Do not be afraid,” murmurs his mentor. She waits until he has obeyed, forcing his fur to smooth. “If we honor our ancestors, the hare will run to our waiting claws.” A pause. “Respect the warrior code, Greypaw, son of Morningheart, daughter of Thymeflower, daughter of Nettlenose.”

“Yes, Runningfoot.”

She trills. Greypaw dips his head respect. 

In the silence that ensues, he mulls over the words of his esteemed mentor, letting his slow thoughts settle in the heat. Once, when he was a kit old enough to walk, and his mother had resumed warrior duties, he had followed his brother to the edge of camp in order to see what the world was all about. The climb had been difficult but he had persevered, digging his claws in the dry soil of the hollow and battling through the gorse bushes that guarded his kin. He had expected the moor to be teaming with prey and butterflies and fun things to play with. But under the big grey Moon, the grasslands had seemed too vast and scary, and he had tumbled back to the nursery, terribly frightened. Maybe he, too, had felt the shadow of death that veils the world, and the spectre of countless lives that have disappeared over time.

* * *

“We respect the code so that the other clans do not fear us,” says Russetpaw, claws out, and Nightclaw purrs.

* * *

“Uh,” meows Troutpaw. His stomach grumbles and he flattens his ears.

Shellfoot imparts him an icy glare and he flinches, which makes his mentor even angrier, because now he’s moved again and the minnows dart away. He can’t help it if her question took him by surprise! He thought they were supposed to be fishing an’ all, but now he’s got to rack his brain for a decent answer, and he’s hungry. The only thing he can think of is those long-gone silver minnows, with their delicious little black eyes… if he doesn’t bring any catch back to camp, then the elders won’t be fed, and if they don’t eat, then he doesn’t get to eat.

“Stupid code,” he grumbles, then freezes.

Uh oh.

“Foolish apprentice,” hisses Shellfoot. “When will you learn respect?” 

_Now, that’s being a bit unfair, don’t you think?_ wants to ask Troutpaw. _Considering how respectfully I usually manage to tolerate you, an’ all._

He makes the wise and generous decision to stay silent. Shellfoot is still glaring with her scary amber eyes. It slowly begins to dawn on him how much trouble he’ll be in if he crosses her further. In a instant, he drops to the ground, nose to the mossy bank. Hopefully, she’ll forgive his insolence. His usual punishment for running his mouth is to go hungry—“it is hunger that will force sense into the imbecile”—and then his littermates have to sneak him a few tiny pieces of prey when no one’s looking. An opportunity like that may not present itself until well past sundown. Just the thought of it makes him wants to wail. Even an imbecile has to heed hunger. 

“Under the code… not cat will go hungry!” he exclaims, praying for mercy, nose full of mossy spores. “And no clan will starve,” he adds for good measure. 

Shellfoot sighs.

* * *

The world rustles through her mind. Under her pads, the bark feels smooth and wrinkled all at once—just below her, the purple flowers of a butterfly tree dip and bob, clouded with white admirals. The smell of the flowers is thick and cloying, chocking her even as she crouches upon the low branch of an oak, wreathed by the sharp smell of leaves. She can feel her heart scorching her chest. If it burns through her bones and her skin and her fur, then it will leap away from her ragged body, and flutter among the canopy.

A cat emerges from the blueberries.

She leaps.

Her body plummets from the branch onto the back of her mentor—claws outstretched—she yowls, tries to find a purchase on the bones and muscles of the warrior’s back, in the thick tangle of brown fur. 

Dustfoot twists. Dovepaw falls. 

“Ugh!” she hisses, rolling to her paws—and immediately drops down, mortified to have disrespected an elder thus. Dustfoot does not comment on her behavior, simply beckoning for her to get back up. Dovepaw obeys. They circle each other around the training hollow, placing one paw after another on the moss in measured steps. The apprentice tries to catch her mentor’s green eyes. 

Suddenly—“Why do we respect the warrior code?”

Dovepaw falters. But her mentor keeps padding on the moss, slowly but surely getting nearer to her—and she hurries away. “Because we are a warrior clan…?” she answers, nervous.

“Elaborate.”

“I…”

A small skipper flits before her, and she can see not only its wings but its abdomen and big bug eyes. Her tail twitches—she has to resist the urge to bat at it like she used to, back when she was a kit and impressing her mentor wasn’t all she thought about. Her mind is blank and she feels so dumb. 

“Do you know the story of our clan’s death and its glorious rebirth?” prompts Dustfoot. 

She nearly trips over her own feet because yes, this is something she knows—“I—of course!”

“Well, tell it to me.” And Dustfoot sits down, interrupting their dance around the hollow. 

Dovepaw’s heart thrums like the wings of hawkmoth. She crouches down, tail low, trying to find the words that the elders use, trying to find the right tone. Her mentor’s tail flicks impatiently. 

“M-Many moons ago,” she blurts out, “at a time when the world was young, the ancient ones were constantly at war. Our ancestor, the courageous and sagacious Skystar, appealed to the ones in the blessed place f-for a way to establish peace and—fifteen of those who had sacrificed their lives in war imparted him the fifteen commandments of…”

Is she telling the story right? Is she honoring her ancestor with the proper words? What if she’s just making a fool of herself? 

Across the hollow, Dustfoot’s whiskers twitch slightly.

“… the fiften commandments of the fallen, which, um. Which they named the warrior code. Um… Skystar descended from the blessed place… unto those which he had left behind… and convened a meeting with the other clans, who recognized his wisdom. And, um, all clans swore to live by the code. So for a long time, there was peace, because the code is… a very fine thing.”

Yup, she’s a right-proper dappled idiot. 

“B-But there came a terrible Leafbare, a time of famine, and the clans became distrustful of Skystar. They demanded to know why, despite following the code, the ancient ones were so displeased with the living that they had ceased sending forth prey. Skystar answered that the ways of the fallen were inscrutable, and that perhaps this famine was a test, and perhaps the clans should weather Leafbare to deserve Newleaf. His words were not heeded.”

Dovepaw’s ears flatten; her mew becomes lower, quieter.

“Thunderclan, Shadowclan, Riverclan and Windclan turned on us. They hunted Skystar and hunted all the cats of Skyclan; this was a time where rivers ran with blood and whole litters were killed in raids. The other clans were without honor. Skystar appealed to the fallen in the stars, pleading with them to show him the way forward.”

She imagines him, ragged but glorious, eyes fixed on the clear sky.

“As he prayed, a robin sang. The first robin of spring. It was perched on the highest tree of the forest, its black eyes fixed on Skystar, and when Skystar looked up at it, it sang again. Then it flew off into the dawn, up the river, far, far away.”

She imagines the bird, dumb but wise, its throat shining with blood.

“Skystar understood. He gathered his cats, gathered the survivors, and followed the path of his ancestors, up the river. They found what they thought was a home. But terrible, monstrous rats attacked them, and rogues attacked them, and many cats considered this a punishment from the ancient ones, and wondered why they were made to suffer thus. They pleaded with the blessed ones without avail. Skystar knew this was a trial, and continued honoring the ancestors, but many lost faith. Our clan disbanded, and became kittypets or loners, and was no more.”

This is a story every cat of Skyclan knows. This is a story every cat of Skyclan has sworn never to forget. 

“It was only many moons later,” continues the apprentice, almost out of breath, “when descendants of Skyclan, who had stayed behind in the old territories, came upon the ruins of their ancestors, that Skyclan was revived. At that moment, our reborn kin knew that their ancestors had deemed them worthy of a glorious destiny. They set out, crossing vast fields and thunderpaths and human nests. They came to the foot of enormous mountains, but they crossed these too. And then they reached the lake. They instantly knew that it was their home. So they stayed here and prospered, upholding the ways of the warrior cat, and when the other clans were driven from their home by humans, our ancestors forgave them and welcomed them in these sacred lands.”

Dovepaw catches her breath, embarrassed to have spoken so long, and observes her mentor from the corner of her eyes. The senior warrior trills in respect for the fallen, then blinks slowly, indicating that the apprentice has done well. “Without the code, we are but rogues and kittypets,” she comments in a mild voice, green eyes searching.

The young cat supposes it is the lesson she must draw from the story. She tries to make sense of it, tries to—

“Without… Without the code… we have no honor,” she realizes. “Just like the clans who drove out ancestors out.”

Dovepaw understands, now.

“Without the code, there is no honor to hunting or fighting and no honor to dying.” That is why she is being taught to understand the purpose of the fifteen commandments, just as she is being taught to leap from trees and fly after thrushes. “Our clan died out when it ceased to respect the code…”

Her mentor watches her, measuring.

“But with the code… our clan will be eternal.”

And Dustfoot purrs. “Glory be to Skyclan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Initially posted on ffnet on 05/07/2019.
> 
> “It is hunger that will force sense into the imbecile” ‘(even an imbecile has to heed hunger) is a Yoruba proverb. Source: Oyekan Owomoyela, “Yoruba Proverbs”, U of Nebraska Press, 2005, ISBN 0803204957, 9780803204959


End file.
